Childhood of straw

Even though I am far away from home now, every time I smell the scent of straw in the wind, my heart is filled with nostalgia for the peaceful days in my beloved hometown.

In my hometown, harvest season is always the busiest time of the year. When the rice in the fields is golden ripe, farmers rush to the fields from early morning. The fragrant smell of ripe rice blends with the pungent smell of the soil of the harvested fields, creating a distinctive flavor of the crop. Each bundle of harvested rice is gathered into piles, then loaded onto oxcarts and slowly pulled to the drying yard.

Adults were busy all day threshing and drying rice, while we children just looked forward to the time to play on the golden straw piles.

I remember the twilight afternoons when the whole group would gather around, jump, roll around, and play hide-and-seek. The haystack was not only a place for the mischievous children to hide, but also a soft bed to lie down in the windy countryside.

After each harvest, every household has a large stack of straw, built right in the corner of the yard or on the porch. Straw is used for cooking, lining the cow pens or as fertilizer for the next crop. On cold winter nights, sitting by the red fire, the smoke from the straw stings the eyes, but also brings a familiar warmth.

My mother often said that straw fire has its own warmth, not as bright as dry wood but warm and gentle. On days when the north wind blows fiercely, my mother lights the straw stove, puts on it a pot of sweet potatoes or corn. Just a moment later, the smell of grilled corn mixed with the smell of straw smoke makes our stomachs growl with hunger. The hot, charred potatoes are passed around, blown on and eaten, the aroma is indescribable.

Back then, many houses in my neighborhood still had thatched roofs. Although not as solid as tiles or corrugated iron, thatched roofs had a rustic, natural feel. In the summer, thatched roofs helped keep the house cool, and in the winter, they kept it warm. I remember those summer afternoons, lying on a bamboo bed under a thatched roof, listening to the chirping of sparrows on the thatch, feeling the gentle breath of the countryside through each gust of wind. The creaking of the hammock combined with the rustling of the wind created a peaceful, gentle country melody that lulled my childhood to sleep.

On moonlit nights, when the farm work was finished, the village children would go out to the open field to play. The full moon hung in the sky, illuminating the vast fields. We would sit together and tell ghost stories, stories our grandparents told us about the mysterious things in the village. The stories were so thrilling that they scared everyone but still made us want to listen.

There were days when the kids went out to the fields to catch fireflies and put them in a glass jar, then watched the flickering lights like small lamps in the dark night. That feeling is still deeply imprinted in my mind, like an indelible part of my memory.

Growing up, I left my hometown to study, then settled down in the city. In the bustling urban area, high-rise buildings were close together, there was no longer the smell of straw, no more thatched roofs, no more haystacks smelling of sunshine. Every time I returned to my hometown, I took the opportunity to go to the fields, walking barefoot on the ground, deeply inhaling the scent of straw to fill my nostalgia.

Perhaps, my childhood and that of many children far from home all have familiar images like that: a warm straw fire on a winter night, a simple thatched roof but full of love, a yellow straw field where children play and rice fields stretching to the horizon.

The memory of the straw in my hometown is not only a nostalgia but also a part of my soul - a place that holds peaceful days, a place I can return to whenever my heart is tired in the hustle and bustle of life. No matter how far I go, I always believe that my hometown is still there, with the passionate scent of straw, with the simplest and warmest things in life.

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/tuoi-tho-rom-ra-post322687.html